Ventriloquist
by prodigale
Summary: At twenty-one, his collection of medals and trophies colors the house glittery gold, & he's mastered the art of smiling...That doesn't quite explain how it gets harder to grip the tennis racket every next day. — RYOMA


VENTRILOQUIST.

slightAU, futurefic. character death.

apply standard POT disclaimer here.

uncapslocks are intentional.

**noun **: ventriloquist:

; the art or practice of speaking, with little or no lip movement, in such a manner that the voice does not appear to come from the speaker but from another source, as from a wooden dummy.

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it can get tiring sometimes to keep smiling. but ryoma's mastered the art of pulling his smile so high up on some days that it gets easier and easier when all he has to do is look in the mirror, trains alot, and knows which degree to push the smile towards to so as to make it seem as real as ever. he doesn't remember waking up to having to practice anymore one day--- it comes naturally. the smile perpetually sticks. it becomes eerie. but nobody notices. they all just say, "oh, ryoma-sama's becoming happier! must be the teenage angst days slipping by him!"

lies. all lies.

he doesn't know when it is that he has to start dragging his tennis rackets to school. dread the sounds of 'pok pok pok' when he bounces tennis ball against his palm. he _loved _tennis. now, he has to repeatedly tells that to himself in his head so that he doesn't give up the sport...not just yet. _I love tennis, I love tennis, I really really love tennis, despite all these holes in my heart, and when it is precisely tennis that took every single thing away from me----_

doesn't quite explain the twenty-seven gold trophies and medals – proud collection – sitting in his wardrobe, on his desk, hanging down his bedroom wall ---everywhere.

and he tries, really. one should entirely give him credit for living out his life. it's not like he doesn't --- he puts so much enthusiasm in tennis practices that it is no strange myth to hear of him scoring perfect aces in a rough tennis match against some legendary, supposedly formidable rival. he summons up so much motivation in training, in running laps that they all spread rumors; words that it's only a matter of time before ryoma-sama becomes buchou of the Seigaku tennis team. nobody finds it strange to think that he's more than on his two feet this time --- it looks like he's going to not only conquer the japan tennis world, but also america, than australia, than the entire world.

ryoma echizen doesn't stop at just the earth. he wants the entire universe.

(he doesn't remember anymore how much it takes to _convince _himself he wants it all : laughter, joy, smiles, tennis, more tennis -------- he becomes that excitable, cheerful, free-spirited, tennis-loving twenty-year-old-something.)

the saddest part is, they all fall for it, and love him for it.

at twenty one, he has fifty gold trophies and ten more new medals to add to his collection. he runs out of space to place them in his bedroom. they trickle some spaces away into his bathroom, occupying where it should be shampoos and soaps instead.

his world glitters. in his bedroom. externally and beyond.

his world is supposedly gold, and tennis. (and alot of masquerades.)

he doesn't tell his opponents how he often has to tremble when picking up his tennis rackets--- the many times his body instinctively tires from holding it...having to stop his fingers from letting go: "oh please fingers, just hold on to the grip-tape a little longer...i'm tired, too."

all that fake, fake motivation.

lies. all lies.

he talks alot with his opponents. trades tips, and tactics. he became buchou. graduated. led a normal life that any other prodigious tennis genius would have ---- a wide social network full of top-notched opponents and rivals plucked out from all over the world. he becomes extremely talkative; almost schizophrenic, they all say. some minutes he cannot stop blabbering about his love for tennis, another, he sits quietly and stares into space and seems to see something they all cannot.

(some says ryoma echizen sees some ghosts sometimes.)

and sadly, that's not a lie.

it's a routine now.

play tennis, train hard, smile alot, talk to people ( sources of distraction--- there are so many. pretending and playing the masquerade are just some of them to name... ), meet up with old sempai-tachi over burgers and fries, occasionally call up ryuuzaki and drop some flirty pick-up lines and enjoy teasing her, often imagining how it feels to pull her pigtails over the telephone cord, head for another important tennis match, appear on tv, get chased by paparazzi, shoot to stardom and fame again, stand in the limelight, bask in the glory----

----number of golds multiply, and now the kitchen, instead of old silvery utensils, becomes jampacked with gold medals, trophies and all of them with his name 'ryoma echizen' printed on them.

...lies, all lies.

he doesn't know when it is that he comes back one day, and realizes that the only place his golds do not touch, is that private bedroom that once belonged to a man greater than himself; the only person he ever thinks resemble as closely a god can be...

he doesn't say it, but he stands outside the room on some days, for hours and hours, fingers pressing against the door knob, contemplating, just contemplating and staring blankly. and it is as if it says all ---

"goddammit, I hate you for leaving me here."

and that explains the holes in those golds, the ghosts he sees everyday, the reasons behind those ugly facades, the shattered reflection in the mirror, the blanks in his eyes, the increasing inability to pick up his tennis rackets and form a firm grip around the grip-tape when he knows his heart is slowly dying and his body is failing to response and his mind doesn't want to, hates to, refuses to try, try, try anymore---

he tries. ryoma echizen does.

tries to motivates himself. tries to live his life _again, _tries to stand on his two feet, tries to pick himself up, tries to hold his tennis racket so tight, it _fucking _hurts and it bleeds like hell but . . .

(he stands outside that _precious; _sacred room and sinks onto his knees.)

_he's _not coming back, and all ryoma is left now are ghosts in the house and in his heart to deal with.

. . . (everything rips apart; revealing broken holes and a heart that is beyond repair, veiled behind the mask of an expert ventriloquist playing the strings all this time – him.)

ryoma bends to pick up a tennis racket. his hand trembles. his fingers cannot grip it anymore.

tennis racket clangs to the ground with a dull thud.

without a hero, without a reason. . . and all he is left to do now is wait and die.

**------owari;;;**


End file.
